Rebellion (The 100 #4)(3)

“We talked about this,” Clarke cut him off as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “The wheel ruts could have come from the village; Max’s people have wagons. And the voices—”

“I heard them.” He started to pull away but Clarke wouldn’t let him.

“I know you did,” she said, tightening her hold.

He slumped, resting his chin on her head.

“I don’t want to cause a scene…” Bellamy swallowed. The word again went unspoken. “But I’m telling you. Something isn’t right. I felt it before and I’m feeling it now. We have to warn everyone.”

Clarke glanced over her shoulder at all the people milling about the camp: Lila and Graham walking past with buckets of water, teasing a younger boy struggling with his load; Earthborn kids giggling as they ran from their village with more food for the table; guards chatting as they traded patrol positions.

“We need to warn them before this… celebration.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever this is.”

“The Harvest Feast,” Clarke said. She loved the idea of participating in a tradition that went back hundreds of years, before the Cataclysm—the nuclear war that nearly destroyed the Earth and forced the first Colonists into space to save the human race. “Max said it’s been celebrated here for generations, and it’ll be nice to take a moment to—”

“It’s what that splinter group of Earthborns is waiting for,” Bellamy interjected, growing louder. “If I were going to attack us, today would be the day. All of us together. Sitting ducks.”

A little boy skipped out of his cabin, then, seeing Bellamy, blanched and ducked back inside.

Clarke took Bellamy’s hands, held them while they shook, and looked him in the eye. “I trust you,” she said. “I trust that you saw what you saw.”

He nodded, listening, though he was still breathing heavily.

“But you need to trust me too. You are safe here. We are safe. The truce we struck last month is holding firm. Max says that splinter group of Earthborns moved off south as soon as they lost the fight, and there hasn’t been one sighting of them since.”

“I know,” Bellamy said. “But it’s more than that leaf pile. I have this feeling on the back of my neck…”

“Then we’ll replace it with a different feeling.” Clarke rose onto her toes and kissed the spot under Bellamy’s jaw before trailing around to the back of his neck.

“It’s not that simple,” he said, though she could feel him finally starting to relax.

She leaned back and smiled up at him. “Come on, today is a happy day, Bel. It’s your first big event as a member of the Council. Think about your speech. Focus on enjoying all the food you helped provide.”

“The Council,” he said, closing his eyes and letting out a breath. “Right. I forgot about the damn speech.”

“You’ll be fine,” Clarke said, stretching up again to brush his rough cheek with her lips. “You’re good on your feet.”

“True.” He looped his arms around her waist, grinning as he drew her closer. “I’m good off my feet too.”

She laughed, thwapping him. “Yes, magnificent. Now come help me get this dinner together before you meet up with the Council. We can celebrate privately later.”

He walked behind her, his arms still wrapped around her waist, his breath warm against her neck. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?” she asked lightly, trying to hide the fact that her heart was a drumbeat of mounting worry.

She might have talked him down today. And yesterday. And the night before.

But she could no longer ignore the fact that Bellamy was getting worse.





CHAPTER 2


Wells


Wells’s back muscles burned as he heaved the last barrel of cider into the cart. After days of preparation for the Harvest Feast, his hands were cracked and raw, his feet swollen and aching. Every inch of him was in pain.

And all he could think was: more. More pain. More work. Anything to distract from the dark thoughts that infected his mind like rot. Anything to make him forget.

An Earthborn woman carrying a baby in a sling walked by and smiled at Wells. He nodded politely back, bracing himself as a memory slammed into him like a meteor: Sasha dangling a stalk of wheat for the same baby to play with while the mother hung laundry to dry outside her cabin. Sasha’s black hair swinging forward, green eyes flashing as she teased Wells for being more afraid of babies than of facing Rhodes and his troops in battle.

Wells gritted his teeth and crouched to lift the cart, the painful weight of it obliterating the memory; then he pulled the load down the central village path to the edge of the forest, where the others were milling about with their own cargo.

Red-haired Paul, off duty but still wearing his guard uniform, stood on a boulder, overseeing the Earthborn villagers and Colonists who’d volunteered to bring supplies down to the camp for tonight’s feast. “Okay, folks, I’ve done a thorough patrol of the woods and the coast is clear. But let’s keep things moving, just in case.” He clapped and pointed down the now well-trodden forest path. “Look alive now, and maintain constant awareness.”

Wells watched as a few of the villagers shot Paul bemused looks. Paul was a relatively new arrival, one of the Colonists who’d been on a dropship that had landed off course. His group had made its way to camp just after their bloody battle with a violent faction of Earthborns had ended in a truce.